


i finally see you (and the world tilts)

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink Me fill; reveal-fic (Merlin's to Arthur) set in 5x01. SPOILERS!</p>
            </blockquote>





	i finally see you (and the world tilts)

**Author's Note:**

> Speculation along the lines of: In 5x02, Morgana’s ploy works out. Under her orders, Mordred saves Arthur and Merlin from a hopeless situation, thus gaining their trust, going back with them to court and effectively becoming another traitor. Guess this isn’t entirely what you wanted, OP, but it’s the background my brain laid out for me, so. Sorry.
> 
> SPOILERS FOR 5x01, once again. (And apologise for the rubbish title. I’m terrible at titles, so I basically just steal lines from songs I think that fit for a fic.)
> 
> 2,970 words.

He cannot move with the sword’s blade held inches from his face. How often he has found himself in the selfsame situation he cannot recall; he remains mostly calm, manner as diplomatic as possible with his back on the earth. His body does not quieten, fingers twitching minutely in memory of his sword’s absence. They feel empty without, and for all the armour he is clad in, he feels faintly dismayed. His fists and raw strength will do, should it come down to that—after all, he has fought and won many a battle without sword—but the touch of the sword in his hand, the roughened leather of the grip against his palm a pleasant weight in his hand, differs substantially from curling his fingers and finding air. Arthur watches in barely concealed rage as the bandit dares to touch his sword, his stomach cramping violently around a furious ball of helpless ire.

Before he is even consciously attempting to, his mind has assessed the situation—they are outnumbered by four, on the ground with no means of defence—and Arthur grits his teeth when his title appears to mean nothing to the man. Being abducted is always the lesser of two evils, since it momentarily repels and postpones imminent death, and the slight chance of escape by whatever means is always favourable, hopeful and refreshing like cool water sliding down a parched throat. But the man grins at him, and Arthur _knows_. Knows that this is a hunter’s predatory grin, proud and boastful at having his prey to his feet, helpless and unprotected. Arthur’s words will mean nothing to him, only the incremental rigidity of his corpse.

“Does your majesty have a last wish?” The predatory grin slides into a leer, thrilled with his royal prey. Even if the words are mocking and the man’s stance is ready to kill, Arthur seizes an opportunity when he sees it.

“Yes,” he says before he is consciously aware of it. He raises his face, expression regal and distanced. They must not know that Merlin is more than a mere servant, that Arthur needs to grit his teeth against the desperation and fear wishing to overshadow his voice. The words leave his mouth with the same self-evidence as the breath he exhales, and somewhere inside of him, Arthur is glad for the almost diplomatic and neutral tone he manages. “Let my servant go. He doesn’t deserve to die like this.”

Doesn’t deserve to die at all, really, but this too they will not know. If the man is surprised that the King of Camelot’s last wish is for a simple servant’s life to be spared, he does not show it. Possibly he has expected Arthur to beg for his life in exchange for his servant’s. Unconsciously, Arthur’s hands tighten in disgust.

The man makes a non-committal noise that could mean anything, and for a moment, a sharp shard of ice pierces Arthur’s heart, cuts off his breathing as everything goes blank. He never enters a battle with fear for himself but fear for his companions. Arthur does not dare relax his body, tight as a bowstring as seconds tick by like eternities, and only when the man nods jerkily to one of his guards does Arthur allow himself to breathe in again.

The guard releases his grip on Merlin and shoves him away, and Arthur watches, wary still but infinitely relieved, as Merlin catches himself and stumbles a few steps forward. Every step he takes away from the scene is a pulse less in Arthur’s frantically beating heart, calming and soothing a fraction of the terror away. His eyes remain fixed on Merlin’s backside, boring into the other man’s body as if willing him to run. But Merlin moves too slowly, his movements hesitant and yet determined—determined for all the wrong reasons. Arthur’s throat closes up, and already he sees it coming before Merlin even speaks.

That fucking _idiot_.

“If you’re going to kill him, you have to kill me first,” Merlin says roughly as he turns around, standing still before the other men. His stance is resolute in every way as he shifts on his feet, and it takes absolutely everything that Arthur has to not let his head drop back against the ground, or roll his eyes, or growl in exasperation. Of course, leave it to Merlin to mess his careful negotiations up with a few simple words, and Arthur ruthlessly kills any feelings of fond exasperation that threaten to well up in his mind before they do.

The scene is still before him, and then Arthur hears the man snort in disbelief. Perhaps he wonders at the surreality of the moment; the King of Camelot’s last wish is to spare a servant’s life, and the servant has literally nothing better to do than to turn around and shoot off his stupid mouth instead to leave in peace. That the query for Merlin’s life was actually a royal order and has been disregarded as nothing is not new to Arthur, and it is also not what enrages him. Merlin’s foolish audacity enrages him, and if he did not know his absolutely _incorrigible_ idiot of a servant, he would have stared as the other men do, so really, against all odds, he cannot hold it against them. A simple, unarmed servant without so much as an inch of muscle to his physique standing entirely still, enfuriatingly calm, before six heavily armed man? 

Merlin is the name.

“Merlin,” Arthur says calmly despite the storm in his chest, and his eyes search and find Merlin’s. A moment of silence passes between them, and Arthur wills Merlin, for once in his goddamn life, to just fucking listen. Arthur closes his mouth and inhales deeply through his nose, feels the pressure of gritting his teeth along his jawline. His words are even and almost diplomatic as he speaks, and his eyes never leave Merlin’s. That Arthur will never forgive him if he disobeys this order now goes unsaid. That Arthur will never forgive him because he will not be able to is what he is trying to make Merlin understand. “Step aside.” 

Arthur knows Merlin has more than seen his share of the terror of wars and fights. It worried him, in the beginning, the thinly veiled distraught, haunted look in his eyes and the crushed devastation etched deeply into Merlin’s features at the sight of a wounded person or a corpse. And yet, ever since the beginning, Merlin has always said a word too many and spoken too fiercely and Arthur knows it is not his lack of physical strength or skill in battle that would get Merlin killed. It is going to be Merlin’s misguided sense of needing to protect those around him, of this terrifyingly deep wish to protect others that is going to get him killed, Arthur is sure of it. He will do everything in his power to prevent this. It does not matter that Merlin is no knight, because Arthur is his, who bears the strength inside his body that Merlin so profoundly lacks, because Arthur wields the blade and shield fiercely and deftly in his stead. Merlin needs no skill to fight because it is Arthur that fights for him. Arthur never enters a battle with fear for himself but fear for his companions, and it is Merlin that inspires most of his fear; stupidly foolish Merlin who would die for him without even blinking. Because if Arthur is kneeling on the ground, defeated, who will fight for and defend Merlin?

Arthur has long since admitted to himself that he is helpless against the surge of fierce, quiet pride that roars through his body whenever Merlin thinks he has to be this stupidly noble and brave, and yet—and yet, there is something about Merlin, something that simply _baffles_ Arthur, shocks the breath right out of him. It is beyond his comprehension how someone as defenceless as Merlin can possibly be so impossibly foolish, so senseless and insane, as to have the gall to almost _smile_ at Arthur in this situation. Arthur’s throat constricts harshly as Merlin’s gaze softens, as his mouth curls up on one side as though it is Arthur that has no idea just what the hell is going on.

“You know I never do as I’m told,” Merlin says, still as infuriatingly calm, gaze lingering on Arthur’s face a second too long. Arthur has no time to contemplate the almost patronizing expression on Merlin’s face, has no time to wonder at how he landed himself in this almost ridiculous relationship, at how he and Merlin both developed this dangerous suicidal desire to just give their life for one another whenever the occasion arose. He has no time to wonder at all because a second later, there is the impatient movement of a hand and the man’s fighters are shocked out of their stupor, moving, moving in a blur, moving onto _Merlin_ and Arthur’s heart skips a beat before thumping violently in his chest, pumping his blood into his limbs so fast until he is consumed by the violent rush of blood in his ears.

The world tilts as he pushes himself up from the ground with his hand, eyes wild and focused on Merlin’s helpless figure, focused on getting to him, standing before him and taking the blows if he cannot even defend him with a sword. Arthur’s plan never fully develops as the world tilts another time, dangerously so, when something happens that Arthur cannot even begin to comprehend. Merlin raises his hand just in time before one of the men reaches him, and there is a shockingly still moment in which the world comes to a standstill.

Arthur’s entire world contorts into an incomprehensible shape.

Frozen in movement, his eyes widen and his mouth slackens as a ball of light begins to grow underneath Merlin’s palm, long spindly fingers encasing it like a cage, almost black against the glow. Something _pulses_ in the air, once, and the men are suddenly rooted to the spot. The silence that follows is all-encompassing, and no movement or sound is heard but the stillness. Arthur manages at last to tear his eyes away from Merlin’s hand, and they flit over to the men. If Merlin had not—if he had not—if this, if this had not come to pass, Merlin would be dead. The men are rigid, frozen in the act of drawing their swords, hands at the hilts unmoving, swords remaining in the sheaths. If this—whatever it is—had not come to pass, they would have drawn them and slain Merlin in a mere five seconds, and Arthur, against his better will, succumbs to the shock jolting through his body, making his limbs leaden, and his knees hit the earth with a hard thump. He can do nothing more than stare, stare at Merlin whose hand is outstretched.

Their eyes meet, and Arthur swallows hard.

Even from the distance he can feel something intabgible curse through Merlin, making him stand straighter and set his jaw into something harder than it has been before. Arthur’s eyes are helplessly drawn to Merlin’s face. He does not search for an explanation in Merlin’s gaze, does not even begin to try to articulate what is happening. It is happening, whatever it is, and it softens Merlin’s eyes, makes him tilt his head to the side, hair falling over his forehead with the movement, makes him open his mouth slightly.

Makes him stare at Arthur for a moment too long, before he softly says, “I’m sorry.”

The pulsing is back suddenly, and Arthur’s head snaps to the right to stare at the earth when it begins to vibrate beneath his knees. The leaves on boughs and the pine cones and tiny stones on the ground tremble, and for some reason Arthur cannot understand he finds that the glowing ball of light in Merlin’s hand demands his concentration, and Arthur turns his head slowly, drags his eyes over Merlin’s face.

Mouth falling open, Merlin speaks with a voice that is unmistakenly his, and yet so unlike him that dread crawls over Arthur’s skin. Arthur does not understand the words for they are from another country, possibly even from another world that Arthur knows nothing about. Merlin’s voices raises as the syllables spill forth from his lips, and Arthur thinks numbly of his men singing a cadence call before the battle begins and of elegies sung at funerals. It is impossibly blood-curdling, gravelly and rough and smooth, and Arthur, belatedly, notices his teeth chattering when Merlin’s eyes glow golden, such a colourful contrast, stark against his pale skin.

The world explodes a moment later as the light bursts forth from underneath Merlin’s palms, and an invisible pressure throws Arthur off his feet with the force of a deluge, overwhelms him too easily, makes him tumble back. It encompasses him like a fever would, dunks him into a surreal sense of perception, until he is not sure if what he sees is the truth. The men make horrific sounds, and Arthur thinks it must be screams, screams of inhuman dimensions that make him cower and clasp his hands above his head, pressing his wrists against his ears as if to drown them out. Directly in front of him, he watches through an otherworldly haze as one of the men falls to his knees, sword falling dumbly to the ground. The man seems to be burning, if the billows of smoke emerging from his shape are anything to go by, and he seems to shrink in on himself, the expanse of his back thinning, shoulders narrowing. His clothes burst in flames, reveal blistered and torn open skin, and Arthur watches in morbid fascination as the skin peels off, thin like wet paper, to reveal a glistening red mess of muscles and sinews. Vomit surges up his throat, and Arthur can barely contain himself as the remains of the man are burnt down ruthlessly before him. It climbs up his nostrils, the foul stench of rotting human flesh, and makes him faintly delirious. He gasps soundlessly and holds his stomach with one hand, eyes unerringly fixed on the gruesome sight before him. Eventually the remains of the man collapse into a heap of bones, the sound reverberating sickeningly in Arthur’s ears, the dull, hollow clang.

As Arthur tears his eyes away, he finds that he and Merlin are alone, and that the bandits are, every single one of them, nothing more than bits of charred flesh clinging stubbornly to blackened bones. A devastating calm settles over the place, settles over Arthur’s mind, and eventually Arthur raises his face to Merlin and can only stare.

Merlin’s skin is pallid from what Arthur can see, eyes glowing a vicious gold one last time before they fade back into the calmer shade of before. His hair is sticking up in black tufts, and the sight of him, of gangly Merlin in his ridiculous neckerchief the epitome of innocence, makes something curl tight in Arthur’s chest. From nowhere, a little voice whispers into Arthur’s head, _Not innocent anymore._

And there is so much to say, there is so much to ask, but Arthur, for the moment, is only numb. There is no sense of fear or wariness as Merlin begins to step wordlessly towards him, hand now resting at his side. Arthur knows he should be—should be wary and horrified and scared—but he feels nothing. Feels nothing, and even the sickness in his stomach, so omnipresent before, is no longer tangible. Merlin is no longer tangible as he kneels before Arthur, face having shifted into something Arthur does not recognise, does not know and is not sure he even wants to know.

Merlin is for some reason terribly nervous, face gone white as if it has been him experiencing this horrible torture of being burnt alive. At this thought, something clicks in Arthur’s mind and the sickening feeling returns, assaults him with a viciousness that makes him exhale on a shudder. 

And Arthur, for the first time in his life, _listens._

_“Saving your neck, as always.”_

_“You don’t know how many times I’ve saved your life.”_

_“‘Till the day I die.”_

_“You don’t understand. I have to go with you.”_

“I, I am so sorry,” Merlin says breathlessly, visibly unhinged by Arthur’s silence, as though he has expected something entirely different. His hands flutter about nervously, like he cannot quite decide what to do with them, and he huffs as he sticks them into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes are wet and everything about his expression, from the slight tremble of his mouth to his flaring nostrils, screams vulnerability and fear. “I, I wanted to tell you so many times, believe me please, oh God _please_ believe me, I wanted to but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I never could, and I’m so sorry, oh God please believe me I never meant any harm, Arthur, never, I only ever did it to keep you safe. Arthur,” he says, and something in Arthur’s chest clenches uncomfortably at the way Merlin’s voice breaks into something desperate, something that sounds like it might never be repaired.

A shiver runs through Arthur’s limp body, eradicating all the tension in one flow. The silence in Arthur’s mind settles into something comfortable and warm, and when Arthur exhales, he feels the poison leave his body.

Merlin draws in a halting breath, and Arthur, once again, knows what he will say before he does.

“To protect you or die at your side, Arthur,” Merlin says, nothing more than a breath. “And before you die, I will.”

Arthur closes his eyes. For the first time in his life, he _sees_.


End file.
